


Lost and Found

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-05
Updated: 2007-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House gets intrigued, and Wilson gets something special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for the beta and to Early Readers for input, especially [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[**bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/) who asked the exact right question.

House had been bored out of his mind for three days. Nothing was interesting lately, nothing, and he was on alert, eagle-eyed.

Catching a glimpse of baby-blue dots in Wilson’s palm, before Wilson pretended to stifle a yawn that wasn’t, was manna from heaven, a sign of oasis in the barren desert of House’s amusement.

“Extra sad today, are we?” House asked with a falsely sympathetic pout. Wilson glared at him across the grimy diner table and took a sip of orange juice.

“It’s my regular morning dose, just taking it a little late.” He gestured with his chin toward House’s plate. “Eat your eggs; we have to get to work.”

As he feinted toward his eggs with his right hand, House stole Wilson’s bacon with his left. Munching it happily, he prompted, “I’m thinking about getting a third board certification: psychiatry. Wanna help me practice?”

Wilson grabbed the bacon back, ripping it from House’s teeth and leaving just a thin strand of fat hanging down across House’s lower lip. “No,” Wilson declared, and crammed the rest of the bacon into his maw.

House sucked the strand in and licked his lips, doing his best not to grin. “Aw, c’mon.”

“Giving you further access to anyone’s mind would be criminally negligent, and I can’t be a party to it.” Wilson drained his coffee while House smirked.

“Weren’t you the one suggesting I connect with people more?”

“You can do that without probing their psyches. Your half of the bill is twelve bucks.”

House leaned back and threw his right arm along the top of the booth. “You ordered more than I did.”

“You ate more than I did,” Wilson retorted. His twelve dollars were already in the little plastic tray. “Pony up.”

Nodding House said, “I will, if you answer a question for me.”

Wilson’s mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed unpleasantly. “You’re going to put conditions on me, for you to do what you’re supposed to do? I’ve already paid my half; I could just leave.”

House lazily waved that away and took Wilson’s orange juice. “No way will you walk out. You’d be too anxious that I’d stiff the waitress her tip. What’d you over-tip this time, anyway? Thirty percent?”

“The servers here work hard for a pittance.” Wilson shook his head and rearranged the silverware on his plate. “We can certainly afford to be generous. Twelve bucks.”

“I always forget Wife One waitressed to get you through med school. The gazillion dollars a year you pay her in alimony isn’t recompense enough?”

As he shifted in his seat, Wilson’s glare deepened. “I want to go. Twelve dollars; let’s have it.”

House reached for his wallet at a speed carefully calculated to ratchet Wilson’s anxiety to its highest possible point. “Why are you on Zoloft?” he asked quietly, eyes aimed toward the check, away from Wilson.

Wilson sighed. “It’s been a hard year.”

His fingers stopped inches from his back pocket. In his peripheral vision, he could see Wilson twitch. Wilson’s buttons had always been criminally easy for House to push. “It was a hard year. But it blew over. Why are you still on the drugs?”

Wilson’s eyes were closed, his fingers pinching hard into the bridge of his nose. “Drop it, House.”

House eased his wallet out of his pocket but kept it low, below the edge of the table. “I’ve got exact change. Right here. Why are you on the drugs?”

“Drop it.”

Close, House was so close to getting this answer, another notch for his puzzle bedpost. He slipped the bills out of his wallet. “Are you ashamed of the gay thing? Because I don’t mind, really I don’t. Some of my best friends are gay. And of course by that I mean you.”

“My daughter has leukemia.”

House imagined this was what being tasered felt like. Wilson’s hand dropped lightly to the tabletop, and his eyes opened bleakly. His gaze was aimed toward House’s face, but House could tell he was seeing something entirely different.

“Her mother won’t let me see her. Won’t even give me access to her medical files, even though she knows I’m an oncologist.” Wilson snorted breathily and closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t even know who’s treating her.”

House cleared his throat. “You –”

“I’ve never had any contact with her,” Wilson continued, anticipating House’s comment. “I met her mother at a party in college and never saw her again. I didn’t even know my daughter existed until she was three. Gina wanted to get married to someone and asked me to give up parental rights so the guy could adopt, be a real father. I was married to Jenny, up to my ears with med school, and –” Wilson stopped and swallowed slowly. His hand crept slowly to the back of his neck, and his eyes were still distant.

“It seemed like the right decision at the time. Better for everyone.”

“You got a DNA test, right?” House asked.

That brought Wilson’s attention back to the present. He looked at House scornfully. “Give up parental rights, House. Gina wanted to ensure I wasn’t part of their life. Why go to all that trouble if I wasn’t the girl’s biological father?”

“Because –”

“Yes, I got a DNA test. She’s mine. Genetically. I’ve never seen her; I don’t even know her name. I didn’t know anything about her until Gina decided to tell me this.”

House was intrigued. “Why, after all these years of nothing, did Gina want to tell you this? That’s a bitch move.”

Wilson huffed and brought his hand up, crossing-guard style. “She wanted my opinion on the best pediatric cancer centers. It didn’t seem like their insurance would necessarily cover the best, but... As to how Gina knew to ask me, apparently her mother hates Gina’s husband and has followed my career as sort of a ‘see how much better you could do’ move.”

“If only Mama knew the whole story...” House trailed off dramatically, earning him an eyeroll.

“House.” Wilson shook his head and moved to stand up. “Let’s go.”

House rose as well, throwing his cash into the plastic tray on top of Wilson’s, but his mind was in overdrive. “You know,” he said, as Wilson slung his briefcase over his shoulder, “you see kids you don’t know with leukemia every day. None of them ever drove you to antidepressants. Does a splash of semen really make such a difference?”

Wilson sighed and headed for the door. House had to hoof it to keep up, and he almost missed Wilson’s reply.

“They won’t let me help her. I could maybe do something for her, and they won’t let me.”

By the time House slipped into the passenger seat of the Volvo, Wilson’s shields were back in place. His armor had re-grown, as strong and shiny as ever. He chatted easily about work and gossip all the way to the hospital, and every second House’s mind was whirring.

Doing a B&E on Wilson’s storage unit, where all his old papers were kept, would give House Gina’s last name. Probably her lawyer’s name too. Birthdate would be helpful, but not necessary for the skip trace. One week, two at the outside, and House would have this girl tracked down. Wilson got called in for consults from other hospitals all the time. Why not now?

* * *

“Come on, House,” Wilson was whining as they walked down the Manhattan sidewalk. Passers-by probably couldn’t hear the whine, but it was there. Wilson had been playing it cool on the train ride in, but House knew the suspense was killing him.

“I can’t help you consult on a case if you don’t share the patient file with me,” Wilson continued, shifting his shoulders as if he expected his lab coat to be there instead of just his spring windbreaker.

“I told you, it’s just a quick drop-in, and we’re not to that part of the trip yet. You’re supposed to be deciding on a Broadway show for us to go to later.”

“I picked it out last week when you roped me into this trip. Give me the file.”

House shifted his pack to the opposite shoulder, farther from Wilson. “Warning: I’m not going to see _Cats_ , no matter what kind of crush you have on Rum Tum Tugger.”

Rolling his eyes, Wilson made a swipe for the backpack, which House easily fended off. “ _Cats_ hasn’t been on Broadway since 2000,” Wilson said huffily. “The file?”

House put him off until they were almost at their destination, only an elevator ride to go. The moment Wilson got his hands on the thick folder of patient information he buried his nose in it, flipping through and scanning the most important pages with a practiced eye.

“This is a typical presentation of ALL,” he noted, clearly perplexed. “At almost eighteen, the patient’s a little on the older side for this kind of leukemia, and unfortunately it wasn’t caught early so the prognosis is not good.” He looked up at House. “But I don’t see why you’d be interested in this at all.”

House shrugged and watched the elevator’s floor indicator change, Wilson in his peripheral vision. “Normally I wouldn’t be. But the cheekbones intrigued me.”

Wilson’s forehead furrowed, and he abruptly turned back to the file, tugging at the pages. “Zygoma? Or do you mean there’s an osteogenic sarcoma of the maxilla? Wow, concurrent with ALL, that is rare. But I don’t see in the file –”

“And the eyebrows.” House raised his own, willing Wilson to get it.

“Eyebrows?”

The doors slid open, and House stepped out, checking which way they should go. He listened to Wilson’s uneven tread behind him, a slight stumble, no doubt trying to walk, read the file, and analyze House’s expression at the same time.

House stopped one room before the patient’s, waiting for Wilson to catch up. “What,” Wilson asked, “do eyebrows have to do with – oh.”

Wilson’s hands dropped a few inches, as if the folder he was holding had suddenly doubled in weight. He looked at House, his eyes steady, probing, analyzing, assessing. House had the urge to grin – to let his triumph show through, the file a treasured kill laid proudly at Wilson’s feet – but squashed it in favor of holding an open, neutral gaze.

Eyes dropping back to the file, Wilson said softly, “This is her?”

“That is she,” House replied, and turned his head toward the tank of a doctor barreling down the hall towards them.

“Dr. House?” the physician – who was young and very square – called out from several feet away.

“Present,” House replied, eliciting an excited smile and the thrust of a massive paw in his direction.

“Such a pleasure to meet you,” the man said, crushing the circulation out of House’s hand. “We can’t thank you enough for working to get Cassandra into this clinical trial. It means a lot to us. I’m Pete Giardello, by the way, Cassandra’s pediatrician, and her uncle.”

Extracting his mangled digits, House looked over to Wilson. Wilson had slipped into the demeanor of competent professionalism he adopted around other doctors, overlaid with the sympathetic warmth he showed to family members. It was an impressive display, made to engender trust, and surely only House could see the glimmers of selfish worry around the edges of his eyes.

House nodded Wilson’s way. “This is my colleague, Dr. Wilson.”

Any strain in Wilson’s smile was bleached out in the shine of Giardello’s enthusiasm. “Pleasure, pleasure,” Giardello said, grabbing Wilson’s hand and pumping it. A hearty clap on the back seemed imminent, but then Giardello let go and turned back toward House.

“Ready to meet Cassandra? She’s so excited about this opportunity, and about getting to thank you in person. She knows, and I know, that there’s no guarantee of success for her personally, but she’s just very pleased to be part of research that might help other people in the future. You know?”

“Yeah,” House replied, even though he himself didn’t quite think that way. But he knew someone who did. “Actually,” he continued, “Dr. Wilson is who the girl should thank. It’s his reputation in the field of oncology that opened the door for her to get a slot.”

“You’re too modest,” Wilson interjected stiffly with a questioning glare.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before,” House noted, amused, and looked at Giardello. “He’s definitely the man to know.”

His cane slipped a fraction as a strong hand clamped around his right bicep. “Could you excuse us a minute?” Wilson asked of Giardello politely, and then dragged House down the hall.

When they were several feet away, he smiled reassuringly back at Giardello and then turned red-hot eyes on House. “Do any circumstances exist under which you would not steal my identity?”

House pretended to think for a moment, just to watch Wilson try to keep the color from rising in his face. “Pretty much no,” he finally admitted. “Are you sure that’s what you’re pissed about?”

“I gave my word that I wouldn’t get involved.” The false smile on Wilson’s face was stretching to unnatural and probably painful dimensions, as he shoved the patient file back into House’s hand. “And here you go, putting me right in the middle. With no warning, nothing.”

“Of course I didn’t give you any warning,” House replied, shaking his head. “You would’ve wussed out, spouting the same pablum you just did.”

The smile held, but the hands couldn’t resist those wide hips. “It’s not pablum, House. It’s coming to a grown-up, above-board agreement about what’s best for this child.”

“You don’t know her,” House pointed out. “You didn’t even know her case. How could you know what’s best for her?”

“How could you?” hissed Wilson, and House shrugged, unconcerned.

“I don’t. But then again I make no pretense that the kid’s best interests are what motivates me.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed, his smile forgotten. “What is your motivation?”

Trust Wilson to focus on a completely irrelevant factor. House teased him with a small smirk, and then gestured discreetly down the hall. “The mom seems to have emerged. Hottie. You’ve got good taste.”

After one last glare, Wilson re-composed himself. His shoulders shifted, and House knew he was mentally straightening his absent lab coat. Wilson loved having that uniform as a shield, maintaining distance even as his words encouraged a feeling of nearness, of intimacy. _Manipulative bastard_ , House thought fondly.

Merely turning in Giardello’s direction raised the man’s enthusiasm beam up to eleven again. One broad hand beckoned them back, while the other was draped across his female companion’s shoulder. She was a slender woman about Wilson’s age, with a thin face and straightened brown hair past her shoulders.

“Here they are,” Giardello announced. “This is Cassandra’s mother, Gina,” he continued, squeezing Gina’s shoulder. “This is Dr. Greg House, and this is Dr. Wilson. Sorry, I didn’t catch your first name.”

Gina’s polite smile had faded. “His name is James,” she said, eyes locked on Wilson’s. “What are you doing here?”

Wilson gestured at waist level, palms down, in a move that could’ve been used to calm a suspicious dog. “It’s a long story. One I want to tell you about in private.”

Unmoved, Gina replied fiercely, “You said you wouldn’t get involved.”

Giardello was clearly confused by this standoff, searching each of their faces for an answer. “Gina?” he asked.

“Peter, this is James,” Gina replied. “The doctor I called to get center suggestions from?”

Peter hurriedly ushered them all several steps away from Cassandra’s room. “DNA Guy?” he asked in a hushed tone.

“DNA Guy,” Gina confirmed, her jaw set and fists clenched.

House kind of liked that nickname for Wilson. Pithy. But Giardello didn’t like it too much, given the way he seemed to grow taller and even more right-angled, his eyes losing all traces of joviality.

Wilson’s attention was focused on Gina. His soft-faced, rounded-shoulder stance seemed familiar even though House couldn’t immediately place it. “Is your husband here?” asked Wilson quietly.

“In with Cassandra,” Gina replied. “You should leave.”

“Would you please have him come out here?” Wilson asked of Giardello, and suddenly House knew what that stance was. Presenting the options. Gentling the family through the process until they made the right decision for treatment.

 _Interesting_.

With Giardello gone, they stood waiting in uneasy silence. House was tempted to pretend his cane was a didgeridoo, but Wilson had almost no sense of humor in doctor mode and Gina looked tense enough to stick the cane in any number of uncomfortable places. Wilson was going to owe him a big one for being so damn quiet.

The husband emerged a few minutes later, looking loaded for bear even though he had all the masculine presence of Pee-Wee Herman. House thought of a great blow dryer joke but didn’t say it, and Wilson now owed him two.

“Leave our family alone,” the husband commanded, eyes flashing, arm already draped protectively around his wife’s shoulders.

“Michael,” Gina murmured, rubbing a thumb across Michael’s arm.

The dog-calming gesture from Wilson again. “Let’s sit.”

House took a step toward a nearby cluster of chairs, but the husband was stubbornly planted. “I don’t want to sit. We don’t want you here.”

Gah, couldn’t they see that House’s leg was hurting? Standing up or sitting down, they could still have the same argument. Stupid stubborn people. House poked a finger toward Michael. “You can at least give Wilson five minutes to talk to you. It’s only because of him that your daughter’s in this trial.”

Gina and Michael’s matching looks of surprise provided a millisecond of amusement. Michael said to him, “We understood that you were the one who –”

House waved Michael into quiet, and then waved them all toward the chairs. “I put it in motion, but it wasn’t me who got her in. The principal investigators of this study hate me.” At last, House was sinking into cushioned comfort, with Wilson to his left and the brown-haired Bobbsey Twins to his right. “They love Wilson, though, think he walks on water when it comes to patient care. His professional relationships and reputation are what allowed the kid to be here today. Well, that and his spermatozoa, of course.”

“House.” Wilson’s prissy glare was unwarranted, in House’s opinion. He’d used a long doctor word and everything.

Wilson turned back toward Gina and Michael, placating hands at the ready. “Look, I didn’t mean to get in the middle here. When House, um, asked for my help, I didn’t know who she was. You wouldn’t tell me her name, remember?”

Gina nodded curtly. “True,” she replied, acting as if even that little admission cost her something. Something weird was going on with her, something that went beyond this incident, probably all the way back to her basic character. If House had been inclined toward psychologically analyzing people he didn’t need to know, he might’ve found it fascinating. As it was, it was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

Wilson’s eyes were wide now, his eyebrows high, his voice velvet over steel. He was going in for the kill; House leaned in slightly so as not to miss it.

“Now that I’m here, though, I’m asking you to let me be a part of this.”

The protestations were immediate and furious, of course. “How could you think –” were the only words House made out before Wilson’s voice like sharp steel cut them all off.

“Let me finish.” Wilson’s hands were still in soothing position; his eyes were wide and almost liquid; and if his face was any more open, they’d fall in. Damn, he was good. “Cassandra has a father. That role’s taken.” Wilson shook his head sadly and continued quietly, “At this point, I can’t believe I’d be good at it anyway.”

Ooh, a perfect time for a reassuring pat from a good friend. House would’ve done it too, if it wouldn’t have shocked Wilson completely out of his spiel.

Wilson sighed and then straightened up, looking directly into Gina and Michael’s faces. “I can’t be her father, but I could be her doctor. That’s what I am; that’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. Let me help her. Please.”

Michael and Gina exchanged glances. House could tell Michael was wavering, but Gina was still defiant. “Peter and Cassandra’s oncologist back home have it covered. They’re excellent physicians –”

“I’m sure; I’m sure.” Wilson leaned forward and took the girl’s file from House. “It never hurts to get another opinion, though. Right? Just let me review the files, see what’s there. New techniques come up all the time, and there might be something I could suggest. Something for after this trial.”

Gina’s eyes were wary but her shoulders had already slumped. Wilson had carried the battle. “You’ll just look at her patient file?”

“If that’s what you want,” Wilson replied quietly.

Yeah, right. If House was willing to settle for that, he would’ve just given Wilson the file back in Princeton. “Dr. Wilson’s suggestions will be greatly improved if he meets with the patient.”

Three sets of surprised eyes turned toward him. “In what way?” Michael asked.

House shrugged and began to twirl his cane. “Don’t ask me how the patient care mumbo-jumbo works; I’m not an oncologist. All I can do is cite the studies that show a personal relationship between physician and patient improve quality of life and longevity for children with cancer.”

“She has a personal relationship with her pediatrician,” Gina protested.

“Who’s not an oncologist,” House rebutted.

“And her oncologist back home –”

“Is nowhere near as skilled as Dr. Wilson, and didn’t come with you to get Medusa settled in for this clinical trial.”

“Cassandra,” Wilson corrected.

“Whatever.” House raised an eyebrow and watched with pleasure as Gina’s body language showed her conceding his point about the oncologist.

“Plus,” House continued, “she really wants to thank the doctor who got her into this trial. Are you going to deny her that?”

Gina looked up at Michael and took his hand. They silently communed for a minute, while House ignored Wilson’s attempts to do the same, and then nodded in unison.

“You can’t tell Cassandra who you are,” Gina insisted. “Michael is her father.”

Wilson smiled shyly and nodded. “Of course. I don’t want to get in the way; I just want to see if I can help her.”

Alrighty then. Enough blah-blah-ing; House was getting bored. “So,” he said, rising from his seat, “Ramsay said this place has an internet café. I’m going to go test out the limits of their child-protection filters. Wilson, come find me when you’re done.”

The Bobbsey Twins rose in unison. “Dr. House,” Michael said, “Cassandra will want to thank you, too.”

House shrugged and gestured toward Wilson. “I told you, that guy got her in. And anyway, I’m not big on expressions of gratitude. Unless they’re of the monetary kind. You’re not filthy rich, are you?”

Gina shook her head; Michael looked confused at the thought of a doctor blatantly asking for cash. Wilson, out of the Bobbsey Twins’ line of sight, was fighting back a smile.

“Eh,” House said, and headed off to find the computers.

* * *

The next Friday, House was in the Princeton-Plainsboro lobby playing Guess the Panty Color and pretending to sign official things when Wilson emerged from the elevator, windbreaker on and briefcase firmly in hand.

“Hey,” House protested, as Wilson stopped to actually sign something, “you’re stealing my schtick.”

“What?” Wilson asked intelligently as he handed the clipboard back to the nurse behind the desk.

House handed his own papers to her, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes at the blank Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp registration forms. “This is the third time this week that you’ve left before afternoon snack. I’m supposed to be Skips Out Early Guy; you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

Wilson’s moue of disapproval appeared as immediately as always, so it couldn’t be that he was sick.

“I arranged with Cuddy to have a temporary alternate work schedule. It’s a good chance for Patel to gain some administrative experience by covering for me. If you need anything from Oncology on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday afternoons let her know.”

What the hell was this? House was missing something. He fell into step next to Wilson as he puzzled it through. “Aha!” he said two steps out the front door, flinging an arm out to stop Wilson in his tracks. “You’re seeing someone!”

Wilson turned to him with a mildly interested look but said nothing.

“Not your psychiatrist,” House mused, “because you’ve been doing that for months and never changed your schedule. Not ‘seeing someone’ seeing someone, because who the hell dates in the afternoon?”

“Shift workers,” Wilson pointed out, but House ignored him.

“You’re spending time with Medusa girl,” he declared.

“Cassandra,” Wilson corrected mildly, and started walking again toward his car.

House followed, curious. “How are you slipping past the Bobbsey Twins?”

“The who? You mean Gina and Michael?”

House nodded and gestured impatiently. He hated it when Wilson was slow.

“Cassandra talked them into letting me come by a few times a week while she’s in the trial. I had asked her if I could interview her in depth because I wanted to investigate the perspectives of a typical patient in her late teens living with cancer.”

“You are such a liar,” House said admiringly.

Wilson aimed his key fob, and the Volvo beeped. “It’s true. I do want to understand her perspectives.”

“But it doesn’t matter that she has cancer,” House countered.

After throwing his briefcase inside the car, Wilson slipped into the driver’s seat. “It does matter, House,” he said as he closed his door. “It matters a lot.”

House contemplated that as the silver sedan pulled away. Then he headed back toward the hospital. He’d bet himself twenty bucks that Brenda was wearing blue today, and he had to figure out how to prove it. No way was he turning over his money to that bastard without proof.

* * *

House couldn’t believe it. Could not believe it.

The coffee in the nurses’ lounge sucked worse than the coffee from the hematologists’ lounge. There wasn’t a decent cup of the stuff to be had anywhere in this godforsaken cancer center. You’d think, with a captive audience of jittery parents, there’d be a Starbucks on every floor, but no.

He briefly contemplated heading down to the street to the deli on the corner but decided against it. Wilson had been yakking to what’s-her-face, Medusa girl, long enough anyway, and they needed to go get dinner if they were going to make it to the game on time.

He stopped outside the patient’s room and looked in through the half wall of glass. The Bobbsey Twins were mercifully absent, so it was only Wilson and the girl. He’d glimpsed her when he’d dropped Wilson off an hour ago but hadn’t paid much attention. Brown hair and brown eyes, but not Wilson’s shade of either. Lean and coltish, just starting to grow into her adult features. She reminded House of a girl he’d known who was moderately attractive at age nineteen but a knockout by her mid-thirties. Not that bad a boss either.

Medusa girl was laughing, sitting cross-legged on her bed. Wilson was kicked back in a guest chair, looking quite proud of himself.

“OK, and that uncle was your father’s brother?” the girl was asking as House walked in the door.

“Mother’s brother,” Wilson replied. “My father’s brothers were the ones I told you about a couple of weeks ago. The ones who accidentally set fire to their neighbor’s orchard.”

  
“After stealing that homemade wine. OK, yeah, I remember.” The girl laughed again. “You have a wild family.”

House rolled his eyes as he plopped into the other guest chair. “A dozen amusing anecdotes over three generations does not add up to a wild family. This guy here didn’t even learn how to live until he met me.” Thinking back, House started to snicker. “In fact, the first weekend after we met –”

“No,” Wilson interjected firmly. As House opened his mouth to reply, Wilson continued, “No, no, no. No. You are not telling that story to my patient. It’s totally inappropriate.”

“Aw, c’mon,” House whined. “She can handle it. If we were Eskimos, she’d be married off by now.”

“Untrue; they prefer to be called Inuit; and you’d be abandoned on an ice floe.”

 _Look at arms-crossed Lord Wilson, Protector of the Native Peoples_ , House thought, and smirked. He gave a wink to the girl, who was now grinning like a loon.

“The Yupik don’t prefer to be called Inuit,” he informed Wilson. “And nyaaah.” Tongue stuck firmly out at Lord Wilson, PNP, House pushed himself out of his chair. “We have to get going for dinner, anyway. I’ll use the bathroom while you’re making your farewells to Sandra Dee. Better be snappy, though. Alone in there, with all that slippery soap and lubricating lotions – if I get too bored, you’ll never get me out.”

Wilson dug his knuckles into his eyes and sighed. “House,” he protested futilely.

Grinning girl grinned harder and gave House a quick thumbs up. “Sandra Dee knows the score,” House reported, and the subsequent matching blushes on her face and Wilson’s were just way too cute to be anything but sickening. House decided to stop at the sink before the toilet.

Even with the door closed, he could hear the two of them out there plain as day. Deliberate design or poor construction? He pondered that for a few moments before tuning back into the conversation.

“…good to go home tomorrow,” the girl said.

Wilson’s hesitation was just long enough to be noticeable. “Definitely something to look forward to,” he said in the fake-happy voice other doctors used in place of realism and compassion.

There was a pause, and then a rustle, and then the girl’s voice rang out, strong and happy. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Wilson was no doubt looking bemused.

“Having sex with my mom.”

House grinned up at the teal-green tile.

“Cassandra, I –”

“I love my Dad so much,” she continued, as if Wilson hadn’t even spoken. “He’s great. The best father I could ever hope for. Being related to him by blood, that’d just be the icing on the cake. But since I can’t have his genes, I’m glad I share yours.”

When did the TV get stuck on the Hallmark channel? Where the hell was the remote?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wilson replied, so very, very convincingly.

The girl laughed. It really was a pretty laugh. “Uh huh. My own oncologist talks to me maybe once a month. I’m sure the Head of Oncology at one of the best teaching hospitals in the country is going to make a two-hour round-trip three times a week just to hear one teen’s perspectives on illness.”

“Well –”

“Plus you quit talking about cancer two weeks ago.” House wondered if the soothing tone she had slipped into was a natural part of her personality, or learned in the months since her diagnosis. Nature or nurture? “It’s OK,” she continued. “Nobody knows I know. I won’t tell Mom. Hoo boy, will I not tell Mom.”

Wilson made an indistinct sound of interest, and the girl laughed again.

“Mom doesn’t like you very much. Well, I mean, she likes you now, now that she knows you as Dr. Wilson. As much as she’d like any oncologist.” From House that would’ve been a cheeky line, but the girl sounded sincere. “But she’s never liked DNA Guy. Grandma says Mom always looks before she leaps, which is true, and that she’s mad at DNA Guy for being so interesting, so attractive, as to make her break her own rule.”

A little pause, and House contemplated busting up the party before anything else could spill. Wilson’s ego got quite enough stroking from the ladies; he’d be insufferable if he got much more.

“But I just think you’re nice,” Cassandra concluded.

Wilson exhaled in a long, loud sigh. “I’m not the same person I was back then.”

“Neither am I,” she said with clear amusement, and House decided that was his cue.

“Time to blow this popcorn stand,” he announced as he burst loudly out of the bathroom.

The girl, now resting against the raised head of the bed, giggled. “I guess you did get bored in there.”

House mock-glared. “You’re sassy for a little Jew girl.” He ignored Wilson’s disapproving headshake.

“What would being Jewish have to do with it?” she asked. “And anyway, I’m Presbyterian.”

“Presbyterian? I specifically requested a Jew kid for this slot in the trial.” House aimed his cane threateningly at her torso. “False pretenses! I’m kicking your ass out in favor of some Hebrew blood. They’re the Chosen People, after all.”

Wilson groaned, “House.”

“No, no, I won’t be swayed,” House protested, drawing himself up regally. “She gets the bed for one more night and then she’s banished back to the hinterlands of… Of?”

“Iowa,” the girl supplied.

“Iowa?”

She smiled and smoothed the blanket over her legs. “It’s been a great place to grow up. All my father’s family is from there.”

House grimaced. Iowa. Sheesh. He looked appraisingly at Wilson. “You did call for a neurological consult, right?”

“Liking the Midwest is not delusional behavior,” Wilson replied, picking up on House’s meaning immediately. He shook his head and then rose from his chair. “Let’s get out of here before you scar my patient any further.”

“I’m not scarring her. She thinks I’m sexy.”

“I think you’re old,” she said. _Hey!_ Noticing his disgruntlement, Cassandra had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

“He deserves it,” Wilson said firmly, pushing past House to stand next to the girl’s bed. “Cassandra, thank you very much for speaking with me the past six weeks. I appreciate your candor, and it was a true pleasure getting to know you.”

“You too,” she replied pleasantly, as House rolled his eyes at Wilson’s overly formal spiel.

“Have a safe trip home, and give my best to your parents.”

“I will.”

Wilson stuck his hand out to be shaken – Why the façade? Did he think the room was bugged? – and the girl slipped her hand into his. The shake lasted all of one pump before she’d pulled him down into a hug. House pretended not to hear when she whispered, “Thank you, DNA Guy.”

Wilson sniffed a little but had it pulled together by the time he straightened up. “Goodbye, Cassandra,” he said as he retrieved his briefcase from the corner.

“Goodbye, Dr. Wilson,” she replied. “Goodbye, Guy Who Didn’t Introduce Himself.”

House stared her down and said haughtily, “That’s Doctor Guy Who Didn’t Introduce Himself to you.” Catching Wilson’s eye, he jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go before the Bobbsey Twins get back.”

“The what twins?” the girl asked.

“You don’t get that reference? Heathen,” House scoffed.

Wilson shook his head. “No, she’s right; you’re old.”

“You know who they are,” House pointed out, settling his backpack better on his shoulder.

“Of course. I’m old, too. Just far better preserved.” It was Wilson’s turn to ignore House’s glare. _Ass_. “Goodbye, Cassandra,” Wilson called again.

“Goodbye!” They were clearly dismissed; the girl was already pulling a laptop over to her.

House sensitively let Wilson have some quiet time. The whole entire way to the elevator.

“Are you going to be any fun at all at the game tonight or are you going to spend all nine innings lamenting how Miss ‘You’re Old’ is gone from your life?”

Wilson was distracted checking his pager, and let some actual information slip out. Amazing. “That wasn’t my last contact with her. We’ll email each other.”

“Sneaking around to see her father behind her parents’ back? You do have a wild family.” House jabbed the elevator button again. Damn, he hated waiting.

“There’ll be no sneaking,” Wilson replied, putting his pager back in his briefcase. “Gina and Michael were in the room when Cassandra asked me for my email address. And I’m not her father, although I’m proud to say I am her friend.”

Gah. House grimaced as they stepped onto the elevator. “We’d better get to the restaurant. I need a beer to wash the taste of treacle out of my mouth.”

“Sorry. Forgot you’re allergic to sentiment.”

“I’m not allergic; it’s just boring.”

“And Mets baseball isn’t?” Wilson – lab-coated, pressed, and starched – looked over, and House had to roll his eyes.

“Of course not!” House reached into his bag, pulled out the Mets cap he’d brought, and jammed it on Wilson’s head. “There’s strategy, and statistics, and beer. Lots and lots of beer. And Nathan’s hot dogs. You’re buying me Nathan’s dogs, right?”

“On top of the dinner I’m also buying?” Wilson raised an eyebrow, but House just waited. Even almost patiently. “Of course,” Wilson capitulated, and squeezed the bill of his cap to curl it properly.

And that was the end of Medusa girl.

* * *

High temperature in the fifties (thank you, global climactic change), no Clinic duty, full bottle of Vicodin, and Rudolph the Amusingly Craptastic Stop-Motion Reindeer on the tube made for a pretty damn good December day. So House didn’t know what Wilson’s problem was.

House’s dishes had all even been clean before Wilson started cooking (as far as Wilson knew). Come on, that should’ve been like Christmas in July. In December. But whatever.

“What’s up with you?” House snapped as soon as the commercial break started.

Tense-lipped and glum, Wilson kept his eyes on the TV and shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Tell me or don’t; I don’t give a crap,” House retorted. “But quit dripping your wretchedness on my couch. That stuff’s a bitch to get out of leather.”

Wilson sighed; House rolled his eyes extravagantly.

“Three kids I knew with cancer died today.”

“The sun rose, the sun set, Cuddy’s attire wasn’t workplace-appropriate. So what?”

Wilson shrugged. “Just thinking about it, that’s all.”

“Oh, God, you expect me to comfort you.”

“Expect you to, no.”

The show was starting again, but House couldn’t take any more pathos tonight. “All right, fine, spirit of the season, and all that crap. Here it is: Dozens of kids you know with cancer didn’t die today.”

Wilson turned and looked directly at him. “True,” he said, drawing it out into a question.

“Because you don’t kill them all,” House clarified.

Settling back into the couch, Wilson resumed staring at the television. “Yes, very heartwarming, thank you.”

Dumbass. Here House was, giving it his all, and Wilson wasn’t even meeting him halfway. “Because you’re not a shit doctor, when you focus. The ones that croaked, you did the best you could to help them, right?”

Wilson seemed to be thinking it through. “Yes,” he finally concluded. “Yes, I did.”

“Then what are you whining about? Switch to dermatology if you can’t stand people dying.”

Wilson nodded, and most of the tension seemed to fall from his face. Finally.

“Or you could be a dentist like Hermey there,” House offered, gesturing toward the show.

“And you’re the Abominable Snowman?” Wilson asked as the creature himself lumbered across the screen.

“Nah, King of the Misfit Toys. They’re kind of fun when they’re not crying about their lousy lot in life.” His pointed stare was soundly ignored.

“You know,” Wilson mused, as he reached for his drink, “I never got why the doll was misfit.”

House propped his feet on the coffee table and slumped further into the cushions, getting comfortable. “Internet consensus is that the reason is psychological. Probably a serial killer in her spare time. It’s the normal-looking ones you have to watch out for.”

“Yeah.” Wilson’s feet were on the coffee table too. There was a small hole in his left sock. “You’re not normally this obvious in your derisive parallels.”

“You’re not normally this dense.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, and they watched the rest of the show in peace.

Lying in bed later that night, waiting for the Vicodin to kick in, House thought again about the evening and the show and unusually mopey Wilson. There was something in there; something he couldn’t quite capture. King of the Misfit Toys, that was the key. The King was a lion who could fly. He had big wings like Pegasus. Pegasus, who was born from a drop of blood spilled by Medusa when she was killed – Medusa. Oh.

Medusa girl was dead. That explained it.

He shoved his face into his pillow and mentally shrugged. Even if he’d realized Wilson was talking about Cassandra, there was nothing House would’ve done differently tonight. Wilson had to buck up and get that thick skin back in place.

Still, he thought as he drifted off, maybe he’d check on the internet to see how much it’d cost to print up a World’s Best DNA Guy mug.


End file.
